


Cymru am byth!

by edgy_fluffball



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: M/M, Rugby, Six Nations 2019, Television Watching, Wales v England
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 16:10:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edgy_fluffball/pseuds/edgy_fluffball
Summary: Inspired by Gwil's post and a t-shirt I spotted whilst watching the game. Gwilym and Ben watch the Six Nations with Joe.





	Cymru am byth!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Popstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popstar/gifts).



> Just to say, that t-shirt is real. So is the song.  
> Pardon my short, unprompted excursion into rugby and Harlee.

Joe had lost any faith in his friends. The sun shone outside, they were about to go to the Oscars, of all things, and his so called friends were glued to the TV screen in Gwilym’s room, screaming violently at it. When Gwilym and Ben had asked him whether he was interested in watching the rugby with them, he had imagined sitting in the lounge of one of their rooms, having a beer and watching something to calm down their heartrates before the ceremony. They had asked Rami, Allen and Lucy as well but all three had declined, Lucy muttering something that sounded too much like ‘I’m not getting in the middle of this.’ In hindsight, Joe thought, she had been right not to. Even Allen, always up for a good time and hanging out with them, had retreated and shook his head.

‘Tell me after whether you’d do it again, mate,’ he had told Joe who tried to shake off the odd feeling of having gotten himself into something horrible.

The feeling was only strengthened when the game actually started and Joe realised that he had no idea what rugby was about. He had managed to find out that England was playing Wales in something called Six Nations but neither Ben nor Gwilym seemed to want to answer his manifold questions.

‘So – which are the six nations, Ben?’

‘Shut up, this is – fucking idiot, just tackle him already!’

‘Gwil, is this like American Football?’

‘Of course not, can’t you see that?’

‘Is he bleeding?’

His last question was not even graced with an answer. Joe huffed out a breath and leaned back, checking his phone for messages and googling ‘ _rugby like american football_.’ Gwilym and Ben seemed tense enough in their seats and apparently, the game did not go as they wanted it to. They had chosen different seats and for the first time in months Joe saw them sit almost apart, not paying attention to the other.

He wanted to tease them about their behaviour, draw parallels to their flight to LA, how close they had been then and how Ben had climbed into Gwilym’s lap, compared to how they picked different sides of the room and avoided looking at each other for the first ten minutes of the match. Joe cleared his throat and inhaled deeply.

‘Yes!’ Ben jumped out of his seat, ‘finally, something.’

Gwilym leaned back with a groan, ‘It’s only a penalty.’

‘But we lead,’ Ben retorted, eyes gleaming, ‘I don’t see a score on your side.’

Five minutes later, Joe was disrupted in his phone browsing again, this time by Gwilym who thrust a fist in the air and grinned at the TV. Ben rolled his eyes and cleared his throat.

‘It’s only a penalty,’ he parroted and crossed his arms over his chest, ‘don’t get your hopes up, you’ll see where that’ll lead you.’

‘So now that it’s an even score,’ Joe double-checked the score bar in the top corner of the screen, ‘would someone like a beer now?’

‘Sure,’ both of them responded with one voice.

He got up and walked over to the minibar. Ben’s cheerful cry made him hurry back with three bottles.

‘What happened? Something good?’

‘A try,’ Gwilym groaned and banged his head against the armrest of his seat, ‘they scored a bloody try!’

Ben danced around the room, ‘First try of the match!’

The scoreboard read ten for England now, Joe still was not sure what exactly it was supposed to tell him. Judging by Gwilym’s reaction, it was not what he had hoped for.

‘So what exactly is a try then?’ Joe handed out the bottles but the moment was already over.

Ben took the bottle and took a big gulp, a wide, shit-eating grin on his face. Gwilym, on the other hand, seemed to endure great pain.

‘You okay?’

‘I can’t have them lose, not today. It would be the end.’

‘Gwil, it’s a game. You said the other day, if Scotland and Ireland –‘

‘No, that doesn’t – that’s not what I meant. If Wales loses tonight, I am going to pay for it.’

‘I am sure a lost game wouldn’t mean –‘

‘We have a bet, okay? If Wales loses tonight, Ben gets to…well,’ Gwilym actually blushed, ‘so I really can’t have them lose.’

‘You bet on the outcome of the match? And your stake was…relationship stuff? Who gets to – god, you’re weird! But also, way to keep your love life interesting. So is that why you support Wales today? Because you had to in order to have your little gamble?’

‘I am literally Welsh,’ Gwilym returned his attention to the screen, ‘there’s an actual reason for my name, you know.’

‘I thought you were from Birmingham.’

‘Birmingh-‘ Gwilym threw his arms in the air, ‘you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’

Joe understood that he had said something wrong when he saw Ben grin at the latest. The glee on his face was brightening up the whole room as the timer reached the forty minute mark.

‘Halftime,’ he laughed, ‘so much for _Cymru am byth_ , sucker!’

Gwilym pushed himself out of the chair without another word, brushed past Ben and Joe and disappeared in his bedroom, slamming the door shut. Joe cleared his throat and looked around the room before muting the TV for the halftime analyses and adverts.

‘Now, was it something I said?’

‘No,’ Ben sighed, ‘that one’s on me. Cymru am byth means Wales forever. They attach great importance to their national pride. Where you are born or where you grow up doesn’t matter, being Welsh isn’t down to a location. Your parents, your family make you Welsh. It’s a bit like the Irish.’

‘Or Italian heritage?’

‘I suppose so,’ Ben flopped over the armrest of his seat, cracking his neck, ‘I might have taken a step too far there. Betting on the game is alright, mocking him for Wales trailing is alright – but taking the piss about his nationality, that’s a step to far.’

‘You should apologise,’ Joe suggested with an easy smile, ‘so, that bet, what exactly is that about?’

‘Just a stupid idea. Whoever wins the bet, whose team wins this, gets to call the shots in bed for a week.’

‘A week?’

‘Don’t act so scandalised, we’re not going to start kinky shit all of a sudden. It’s more a question of…positions.’

‘Positions?’ Joe shot Ben a piercing look, ‘god, at least you’re blushing now! You are relentless, poor Gwil has to put up with you on a daily basis.’

‘You make it sound like that bet was my idea.’

‘Wasn’t it?’ Joe almost choked on his beer.

Ben nudged him with his elbow, ‘Of course it was. Because England are going to wipe the floor with Wales.’

‘Are you really sure about this?’ Gwilym came back into the lounge, ‘Because there is a second half to get through.’

‘You changed you shirt?’ Joe lifted an eyebrow, ‘wow, you’re really into it.’

Ben’s mouth hung open. Gwilym had returned in a new t-shirt, a bright red t-shirt with the Welsh dragon that proclaimed ‘ _As Long As We Beat The English I Don’t Care_ ’ in bold, capital letters stretched over his chest. He sat down, grabbing his beer again and took over the remote.

‘Don’t start,’ Ben rolled his eyes, ‘there’s a song going with that shirt, he hummed it on the plane once. Yes, my boyfriend is a child, in case you hadn’t realised. I can’t believe you packed that shirt!’

Gwilym stot him a glance that made Jow whistle through his teeth, ‘So, second half, what am I to expect?’

‘A comeback,’ Gwilym said grimly, ‘Wales can always come back from a deficit. They proved it against France, back in January, remember? Victory in the second half.’

‘Sure, dream of that Grand Slam,’ Ben emptied his beer, throat working to swallow down every drop.

Joe noticed the way Gwilym was watching him. He rolled his eyes, his friends were ridiculous in their cock fights. The thought of this metaphor made him giggle to himself.

Ten minutes into the second half, Gwilym jumped up again and clenched his fist, ‘Get in there!’

The score changed and Joe, having given up on following the game, reverted to watching his friends. Another five minutes later, Wales scored again and Ben sucked in a breath. Gwilym groaned in anguish when England expanded their lead a few minutes later.

And then it was him to jump out of his chair again, ‘And a try! Nicely done, Biggar! That’s the bloody lead.’

‘Yes, well done,’ Ben buried his face in his hands, ‘we have another ten minutes to go!’

Joe excused himself a few minutes later to go to the bathroom, taking his time since he could have cut the tension between Ben and Gwilym with a butter knife. And then he heard the roar, clapping and cheering from the living room. A look at his watch told him that the game must have ended. He dried his hands quickly and returned to the living room.

‘Where’s Gwil?’

‘Celebrating,’ Ben whispered, draped over his seat like a Romantic heroine feeling faint, ‘they won. Had another try.’

‘So, Wales won, huh?’

‘Twenty-one to thirteen,’ Ben responded, ‘I’m not going to hear the end of that for a long time. I think he’s posting on Instagram.’

Joe pulled his phone out of his pocket just as it pinged with a notification, ‘He is. I think he mentioned that 'Wales forever' thing. Changed his shirt, too?’

‘He said the other one would be too radical for the followers,’ Ben wailed, ‘he put on a second Wales shirt. Imagine, he brought two rugby-related shirts over here. We are here for the damned Oscars, and he brought those out of spite.’

Joe looked up from his phone, ‘Huh? Sorry, had to comment.’

‘What did you comment?’

The balcony door slid open a moment later and Gwilym stepped back inside, ‘Joe!’

‘Well, it was nice of you to invite me along,’ Joe grabbed Ben and pulled him out of his seat, using him as a human shield between himself and Gwilym, ‘I will never again watch rugby with you, thank you very much, see you later!’

He shoved Ben at Gwilym and ducked out of the room. The last thing he saw before closing the door was Gwilym pulling his boyfriend into a passionate kiss which Ben reciprocated, leaning up onto his tiptoes to reach him comfortably. The temptation to call them out on their mushy behaviour was great but then he saw how Gwilym’s eyes slipped shut as Ben’s fingers found the collar of his shirt, pulling him down a little. Joe decided to leave them be and celebrate in peace.

Whatever they were celebrating.


End file.
